Shadow's Angel
by Raablyn
Summary: Third chapter! In which we are introduced to two crucal characters.
1. Jastra

**Shadow's Angel.**

_Disclaimer: no I don't own anything._

_Yes, I am fuly consiounse of the fact that I HAVE FOUR OTHER FICS TO FINISH and probably shouldn't be starting a new one. But this one came to be in the middle of the night and I know exactly how it's going to turn out. So it goes up! Bwahaha!_

_Please read._

_Chapter One._

_Street's Daughter._

It was night in Menedeas's streets.

Menedeas was a city north of Tarsis and south of Solace; it was a big city, a fiefdom, with beautiful rich areas for the rich and desolate, crowded, dirty areas for the poor.

The nice areas were clean and neat, sparkling buildings that shone in the night with soft light from fancy windows that somehow peak out through the velvet curtains, alight with laughter and soft songs and music, with that undercurrent of gentle voices filled with wonder as they told bedtime tales of shadowy mystery and brilliant magic, of magnificent dragons and grim dungeons, of a beautiful princess and a handsome prince, of Happily Ever After. Tales that make little child go to sleep nice and warm and happy, smiles on their lips as they dreamed these tales where _they _danced with the prince and _they _rescued the maiden from the dragon, where nothing bad ever happened, where they were heroes.

Butthis story does not take place here.

This story takes place in the crowded, poor areas. Areas where the buildings were three or four stories of cramped, dirty rooms. Areas where woman screamed and men shouted and children cried. Areas where little children turned a corner to find a dead body in one of the allies, stabbed and torn and bleeding. Areas where children worked and suffered. Areas that were pressed in, dark, damp, and either too hot to breathe or too cold to cry.

Areas where there were no stories, where the children went to sleep on the floor beneath a threadbare blanket, their clothing scant and dirty, their stomachs empty and their skin cold. These children dreamed of food and warm clothing, of places where Mommy didn't cry and work so hard and where Daddy didn't yell or cry when he thought no child was peeking around the door.

Dreams where there were no heroes, only warmth. And light. And joy.

Dreams that seemed impossible.

This is where our tale begins.

* * *

"Kid, ged ova here!" 

The girl turned to her Boss, damp hair straggling into her eyes so that she could barely see him. It was dark and loud in the dirty tavern, a place where bawdy men drank and hard-eyed woman slapped. A place that was no place for a child.

And yet here she stood.

"C'mere, ye dirty rascal! Ye liddle dog!" the big, half-drunk tavernkeeper called, pointing to the girl. Confused, she looked about. The Boss never spoke to the spindly little girl.

"I'm talkin' to ye, ye girly!" she poked a finger at her chest. "Yeah, ye! Watcha madder, girly? Ye deaf? Ged ova here a'fore I tan yer worthless hide!"

Still confused, the little girl walked up to the big Boss, her little feet nearly tripping over her long, dirty apron that was made for a woman, not a six-year-old child. She walked into the back of the tavern with the man, to the kitchens where all was hot and steamy.

The Boss studied the girl. She was a spindly child, all bones with sharp elbows and knees and a round, pale oval of a face that was defined by the sharp corners of her bones. Straggling, damp brown hair clung to her face and neck, and through it too-large, dark eyes blinked away the unwanted strands. She was dressed in a cast-off men's shirt and much-mended, seamed leggins. Her feet were small and scarred and bare. A dirty, stained apron trailed to her ankles, smelling of stale beer and grit.

The Boss scowled; this was not a pretty girl.

"Ye -" he reached up and seized a beer flagon, shoving it into her arms. "Ye're bein' promoted, ye hear? Got too many liddle kiddies to scrub da floors, not 'nough ladies to wait da tables. So ye're goin' to wait da tables. Ye take this beer and ye put it on da table that axed for it, ye hear?"

The girl blinked in confusion, clutching the beer flagon.

"Ye dumb, girly?"

She shook her head, the hair falling from her face.

"Then ged to it!" the man roared, throwing the girl out of the kitchen and to her knees int he main tavern room. Stumbling, she staggered to her feet and looked around, still holding the flagon.

Promoted. Two minutes ago she was scrubbing floors with dirty water that seemed to give them a tobacco-y, brown stain rather than clean them. And now she was supposed to wait on tables?

Lida, one of the barmaids, came over to the confused little girl. "Ye see that table, ova there?" she asked, jabbing her own finger to a table that housed three men who apparently had a bit too much to drink already. "Ye take that flag'n and ye stick it on that table and ye wait t' see if any of 'em wants anything else. If they don't, walk away. Don't go too close that they kin touch ye; and if they do touch ye, slap 'em, good an' hard. They're so drunk they'll let go, and if they don't, slap 'em again."

"Yes'm." the girl muttered, following the pointing finger to the table. Walking over, she reached high up and pushed the flagon onto the table, then backed up to see if they wanted anything else. One of the men reached out and seized her hair.

"Ye're a purdy lassie, ain't ye?" he drawled, giving her hair a tug. Remembering what Lida had said, she swallowed and wondered what would happen if she _did _slap them.

"Well?" the man demanded, giving her hair another sharp tug. "Answer me! I axed if ye was purdy!"

Swallowing, the girl pulled back her hand and slammed her bony palm against his hand with enough force to leave it stinging. He blinked and released her suddenly, shoving her back. She staggered, tripped, and fell on her behind.

"Oh ho!" one of the man's comrades chortled. "The liddle girly's gonna smack ye up, ye big brute! Ah, watch out for the liddle girly - she gotta stinga!"

"Oh, no, she ain't!" the man roared, stumbling to his feet. The girl back up as the man staggered foreward, sputtering. "I'm gonna teach ye, ye liddle dog! Jus' watch me! I'm gonna . . . gonna . . .meh . . . mess . . . ye up!"

The girl looked around, but there was no one paying attention, and she was too scared to get to her feet. She watched, numb, as the man staggered closer . . .

. . . and lurched and fell, face-first, in the dirty floor, snoring and asleep.

The girl gasped and staggered to her own feet, now more dirty then ever. The barmaid, Lida came over quietly.

"Hey, ye, go on home." she said, giving the man a good kick in the crotch. Even in his sleep he groaned and rolled over, vomit coloring the sides of his lips. "Ye had a bad scare, now ye go and see if yer ma's home."

"Yes'm." the girl unfastened the apron with trembling fingers. "I'll . . . I'll do that."

"Here -" Lidda seized the man's money-pouch from his waist and pulled outtwo silver coins and five copper, keeping some for herself. She handed the girl the seven coins. "Give this to yer da - he'll wanna know why ye're outa work s'early, and this'll soften 'im up."

"Yes'm." the girl knew how explosive angry Das could be, when their little girls came home from work early and without coin. She placed it into a pouch that hung beneath her shirt, over her chest.

"Good." Lida tugged the apron off and brushed the hair from the girl's face. "Tell me ma that I'm staying all night, will ya?" looking around, she sighed. "Got a bit more coin ta' earn."

"Yes'm."

"An' tell her not ta worry, will ye?"

"Yes'm."

The girl stumbled out of the dark, dirty, crowdedtavern into the dirty, crowded streets. The only difference was that the sun blazed hot upon her head and eye. Cupping her hands abover her brow she continued on through the ally-ways, traveling to her home.

Soon she arrived at the dirty, crowded apartment room. Going up to the rotting wooden door, she slammed her fists on it in rapid succession, yelling out, "Hey, ye open up! I live here! MyDa'll vouch for me!"

Minutes later an old woman dragged open the heavy door half-way, peering at the dirty girl. "Why, Ruthenne, you've returned! Good!"

The girl rolls her eyes and slips in, knowing better than to answer but answering anyway. "I'm not Ruthenne."

"Oh, so sorry, Amilee!"

"I'm notAmilee either!" the girl mutters, walking up the stairs. The old woman was always calling everyone the names of her three daughters, daughters that had died long ago.

The girl normally would not have been so snappish with the woman, but she was tired and hungry and cold.

She always was.

She made her way up the rickety stairs, feeling her way through the halls as she climbed. There was not light, no windows. She was terrified she would fall. She always was, even after living here for all her years.

She made her way through the halls, leaving the stairs behind. Now her eyes, trained to see in the semi-darkness, guieded her to her destination; a doorway in the stone, with half of it broken, all of it covered with a threadbare, moth-eaten blanket that served as a door. In winter, when the buildings grew chill and cold, the blanket would be taken down. Now, however, in autumn the blanket remained a last graps at privacy.

The girl pushes the blanket aside and walks in. It's empty, except for two young children, both males. They turn to look at the girl, the older girl.

"Jastra!" the elder male, the four-year-old, cries. "Ye came back! But it's so early . . . why're ye back?"

"Don't ask." the girl, Jastra, says softly, walking past her cousins into the room. Matt, the boy who greeted her, trails after her, persistantly asking questions. Ander, the small two-year-old, just sat still on the stone floor.

The room is small, cramped, with a chimney in one corner, a broken hole in the wall covered with a scrap of blanket next to it. A iron slate with the fire goes into the fireplace, with holes allowing the smoke to go through from the botten; an iron rod hangs a pot over it, and smoke from the below chimneys drifts up through the chimney and up to passage. Voices echo up with the smoke, but no ne cares. The room has one table and two small stools, with two blankets in one corner and two in the other.A chamber pot is in the remaining corner.

But the girl hardly cares. This is her home. This is where she lives. She sleeps beneath one of the blankets in the far corner nearest to the door, listening to her cousins rustle a little ways next to her; she eats food cooked in the pot over the smoky fireplace at the shanty table inthe room; she watches her little cousins play before her parents and uncle return from work in this room.

And so without answering her cousins questions, she places the pouch on the table and goes to the corner to sleep the slumber she could not do last night.

* * *

_Yeah, I know . . . kind of a boring start, but who cares?_

_Please review. This gets more interesting, I promise!_


	2. Dust and Shadows

_Disclaimer: I own the characters of this story; Jastra, Eannin, Shaarona, etc. But I don't own the Dragonlance or Wizards of the Coast. Ok?_

_This is an introduction to the Bad Guys and another character. Getting there. By chapter 4 we'll be back with Jastra._

_Told you I knew where this was going._

Dust and Shadows.

The man crept up the trail timidly, trying not to touch any of the dead, decaying trees that lined his path. How revolting they were, reaching out with skeletel white branches to brush against the skin of his face and arms, damp dead leaves clinging still to their mother. Heshuddered and wished, for the thousanth time, that he had never taken this miserable job, had never agreed to the disgusting contract, had never met the shadowy figure in that wretched, wretched alley . . .

But what was done was done; he had taken the job, signed the contract, met the shadowy figue. And now he could never go back. Would he spend the rest of his life, doing this . . . ?

It was a horrible thought, and Eannin shoved it from his mind. A thin, shaking, sharp-featured man, he crept along the trail in a half-crouch, clutching the bundle to his chest. Nervous pale brown eyes darted from shadow to shadow, and his thin lips trembled as a raven called out from its perch. Gods above, he hated those things! Hated them . . .

His musings came to an abrupt end as he turned to find himself facing a stone mountainside where the tail ended in a wild tangle of roots and briers. Ivy, damp and limp from the constant drizzle that fell from the grey sky, clung to the stone, rustling feebly in the horse wind. Eannin swallowed, his Adam's appled bobbing in his skinny throat, before he lifted a thin, pale hand to brush away a paticularily thick vine. Concealed beneath it, on a tiny ledge of grey stone, was an intricate rune of twisting lines and sharp, dramatic corners. Lifting his forfinger, Eannin pressed it into the exact center of the rune, over a delicate twist of lines that seemed, to the fanciful eye, to be depicting a moon wrethed in branches and claws.

"_Edraa'ka ni bennkir sae gweyl aah vampyrr._" his whispered, his voice cracking on the last word of the incantation. The lines of the rune began to glow a dark, sinister red, and the stone, ivy and all, shimmered and disappeared withoutso much as asigh of protest. A dark tunned gaped in the mountainside, and the whistling, moaning wind wet with rain called to him from its depths.

He _hated _this part. Just _hated _it. Shuddering with surpressed terror and disgust, Eannin crept forward, huddling against theside of the tunnel in a vain serch for warmth. There was none; the tunnel was dark, and wet, and cold. Cracks in the walls allowed water to seep through, and the wind carried rain that smacked wetly into his face. Coughing, cursing, he turned around a bend in the tunnel and kept going.

On. And on. And on. Down,up, straight, right, right, left, down, down, down, left, up, up, up, up, right, up. Sometimes the tunnel ran almost vertical, and poor Eannin had to seize hold of the uneven stone walls to keep himself from falling. Most times there were forks in the tunnel, leading off to pits of death and chain creatures with nasty, sharp teeth, and he was forced to backtrack many times. And sometimes the stone gave way to mud and dirt and he was left scrambling and clutching for a hold. And sometimes the water pooled out in dusty waves to fill the bottom half of the tunnel and he was forced to wade through, shivering in the knee-deep water. As he went deeper into the mountain, the cracks lessened and the wind ceased to blow through. A small blessing, as the silence weighed heavily on his ears, broken by the annoying plip-plot of a drop and his too-loud scurrying footsteps.

Soon, however, deep into the top of the mountain, he rounded a sharp turn and came face-to-face with a heavy, steel door. The same rune that opened the tunnel was inscribed here, in the center of the door. Eannin, licking his lips anxiously, lifted his forefinger and pressed it to the heart of the rune. He repeated the incantation, and waited.

He did not have to wait long. The rune glowed that ghastly color, and the steel door swung silently in. Eannin shuddered but nevertheless walked through the doorway, and down the corridor. For it was a corridor now, no more a rough-hewn tunnel but an elegent, straight corridor of stone. His footstepts rang out in the silence, and his heart beat so loudly that he clapped a quivering hand over it.

He came to another door; this one was wood, simple but elegently carved with skilled hands, and with no runes this time. No. This time in the place of a rune there was simply a skillful drawing of two slightly slanted, luminous eyes in a narrow, elegent face with a thin nose and full, curving lips. Hair drawn up in a delicate, twisting headpeice framed the lovely face. The eyes glowed red in the darkness. Eannin pressed his globe of light into his pocket, and it obediently winked out.

Stepping forward, he lowered his eyes swiftly, bowed to the image, and crept closer. "Your pardon, my Lady, but may I ask passage through your halls?"

A brief pause which seemed to last an enternity to the wretched man ensued; Eannin was about to turn and run when the face nodded imperiously. The carved eyes closed for a minute, and the wooden door swung open.

Eannin licked his lips. Bowing, he scuttled past, feeling all to clearly the mocking, crimson gaze following him inside the Castle.

* * *

The castle was an old, abandonned stone keep once known as Alfguard Keep. Now renamed Deepshadow Keep, it was a dark, gloomy, grim place. The unnatural chill of the stone walls crept into your skin; the abnormal silence weighed on your nerves; the shadows leered and hid everywhere. Eannin shuddered as he stepped into the bottom halls. 

"Excuse me!" he called out horsely, his voice ruff with fear and his eyes darting. "But I must request an audience with Shaarona!"

The silence mocked him.

"Excuse me!" his iron collor hugged his neck. "Excuse me!"

"You are excused, human."

Eannin whirled around. Although he had been expecting the cool, calm voice, it still shocked him. He stood, quivering, as she approached.

She was, to all eyes, a beautiful one; a Silvanesti Elf with long, black hair and white skin. Graceful and lithe and beautiful, with full lips and slanted eyes. But those once-delicate features wereferal and sharp; those once-gentle eyes hard, their dark depths echoing with a crimson light. Her full, thick, ruby lips parted as she spoke, and two slender, slightly curving, thin teeth slid down over her bottom lip, pearly white as the rest of her teeth and needle sharp. A delicate tongue licked her lips and teeth, making them shine in the torchlight. Dressed all in black, hooded and cloacked, the vampiress's cruel eyes settled on the shaking human.

"Th-th-thank y-you." stuttered the poor man, shaking as she drew nearer, her eyes fastening on his and her tongue running over her fangs. "B-b-but I-I need to t-talk to - to -"

"Shaarona." her lips hissed the _sshhh_, rolled the _rr_, whispered the _onaaa _in that cold voice as her lips and teeth and eyes shone.

He nodded. Why could he not control his stuttering around these vile creatures? "Y-yes, the M-mistress."

"Mistress of Deepshadow Keep." her eyes never left his as she nodded her head.

"Aye, Mistress of D-Deepshadow Keep." Eannin agreed, nodding enthusiastically.

"What business do you, puny mortal, have with Shaarona?" she drew closer.

"I-I have . . . it . . . " his voice faltered, "she . . . sent me on th-the job . . . to get it . . . and . . . " his voice faded to a whisper as her eyes bored into his.

"Do you have it?"

"Y-yes." he held out the bundle. In one swift moment she swooped forward and snatched it from his hands before he had time to blink. Shivering, he let his arms drop limply to his side as she tugged the cloth away, revealing the treasure inside. "Aaah." she hissed, eyes gleaming. "Yes, yes."

So occupied was she with the contents of the bundle that Eanning plucked up the courage to ask. "C-can I s-speak with Shaarona?"

"What?" her eye were on the bundle. "No, mortal. You delivered the goods - what more do you need to do? We will, as always, contact you when we are in need."

"Aye." he nodded.

"Leave us now." she waved him away with an imperious gesture. Eanning bowed.

He looked upon the human baby resting in the vampiress's arms,eyes closed in magical slumber. He had stolen that baby, crept into her home at night and swiped the baby girl from her cradle. Guilt stabbed him as the vampiress swept away, the girl-child in her arms, lips glowing with anticipation. Squaring his shoulders, he reminded himself of his own six children, the children that the Vampires of Deepshadow Keep had promised to leave alone if he did their errends. He also reminded himself of the many, many children that that farmer had; the baby wouldn't be missed.

But, as he crept back through the tunnels, the memory of two small, infant eyes peering up at him from the cradle that he stole her from shook him to the very core.

It always did.

* * *

_What did you think?_

_Please review. Please, please, please review, if only to tell me what I should improve or something._

_Danke._


	3. Will You Find Me?

_Disclaimer: I own Asheyl, Tanhin, Tavish. I do not own DL or WotC. Thank you._

_Thank you for all the reviews! (happy dance). I love reviews._

**Chapter Three**

**Will You Find Me?**

The ruins were haunting, dark, gloomy spirals of broken stone reaching towards the black, star-strewn sky. Once beautiful pillars, graceful homes of the ancients, they lay in ruin, cracked and mossy and dull. Broken stone littered the floor; bits of jagged glass shone through the dust of the ages. Trees grew here and there among the devastation, their trunks twisted and warped due to damage as seedlings from the falling stone, their branches snagging on the stone, their leaves small and half-dead for want of light.

Light did not come to the Ruins of Dal-Tamarath.

Here and there, though, there were things that were oddly out of place; a footstep in the dust, a tattered bit of cloth hanging limply on a cut stone, the whisper of little voices, a flash of clothing or hair or skin resting in the trees.

Or the tattered, limp rag doll lying face-down in the dust.

"Marigny!" a pretty voice, a child's voice, called from time to time, echoing eerily on the stone. "Marigny!"

And, following the call, the whispered words, "_Where are you? Are you lost? Are you scared, all alone, poor Marigny?_"

. . . _You, lost . . . Marigny, Marigny, ny, ny . . . _echoed the stones hauntingly, the child's voice tossed to the winds by the stones to dwell with the whispering of thedead leaves against the stone.

It was this voice that the four men, nervously clutching hoes and old, dusty spears, heard as they crept towards the ruins.

"I tell you, it's haunted!" one, a skinny fellow with straight, black hair and darting, pale blue eyes whispered hoarsely to his companions. "You can feel the chill in your bones, for god's sakes!"

"Paladine be with us." muttered a second, a brawny, tall man with bright red hair. "This place is perfect for haunts."

"Ayuh." the third man, a brown-haired middle-aged man with weathered skin and hazel eyes, muttered, clutching his spear.

"Oh, hush!" the fourth, a well-dressed cleric wearing blue robes of a Son of Mishakal, whispered. "Haunts! Look around! We're the only ones to set foot here for centuries!"

"Oh?" The red-haired man asked, raising a bushy eyebrow. "What about _that_, eh?"

All four men followed his pointing finger, their eyes traveling along it's length, through the air, to rest finally on the little doll lying in the dust.

"That's not been left by any haunt." the cleric whispered, his eyes on the doll, his voice breaking the silence.

"Nah." agreed the black-haired fellow.

"Tavish." the middle-aged man waved his hand in the cleric's direction, pointing to a gap between a mossy stone and a tree. "Look!"

"What?" Tavish turned, his medallion swinging over his breast.

"I saw something!" the man whispered, his voice hushed.

"Probably a village child," Tavish concluded, kneeling down and scooping up the doll. Noticing the well-worn fabric of the 'skin' and dress, the half-hanging left button that served as the eye, the tangeled and faded thread that served as the mouth, he smiled slightly and continued. "Some little girl who came with her brothers on a dare. I used to do that, with my sister; investigating the spooky woods behind the village house."

"Ain't no village child." the brawny man argued. "I know 'em all - I fathered a good deal of 'em - and I know for certain that no Anny or Tommy has been out in the Ruins."

"Their mothers would go balistic." the skinny man agreed soberly. "I agree with Rannon, I'd've known if any of _my _kids were out here. Too dangerous."

"Far too dangerous for any child." agreed the middle-aged man. "Look at that brokenglass!Forget the mothers_,I'd _go balistic if my youngins were out here."

"Then how'd the doll get out here?" Tavish asked, holding the thing. "It hasbeen well-loved."

"T'has." muttered Rannon. "But Janek is righ' - there's been no children out of the village. Too long a walk, for most of 'em, and they know plum well how their mothers are."

"Aye." Janek muttered beneath his breath. "What do you think of this, Niall?"

"I thinkit's the haunt of a girl." Niall, the middle-aged man, concluded.

"Haunts can't hold dolls." Rannon muttered. Tavish nodded, smoothing the yarn-hair with his fingers.

"There!" yelled Rannon, breaking the ominous silence. "I just done seen what old Niall'd!"

"What did you see?" Janek asked worridly, peering down the alley.

"A pair of eyes!"

"Let us gocheck it out." Tavish said, grimly placing the doll into a pouch and setting off at a quick pace. Janek, Niall, and Rannon were swift to follow.

No sooner has they taken two steps beyond the tree then a little, piping voice called out from above, "Who're you?"

Tavish started, having nearly been run over by Rannon when he stopped suddenly. "What?"

"I asked, who're you? I've never seen anyone like you before. You don't look like Asheyl, and you don't look like Asheyl said Mamma looked like, so who are you? For that matter, I don't remember Mamma, and Asheyl's the only one I've seen, ever -"

Tavish snapped his head up, searching the creaking, old, half-dead branches for the source of the voice. The three other men were quick to mimic him.

Up, in the tree, was a little boy.

At least, that was what Tavish origionally thought. The little boy had sandy locks that fell to his shoulders, dirty, dusty, tangled locks that framed a pale face. He had large, grey eyes and a small, quick body dressed in faded, old rags clumsily sewn together by childish hands. A too-large, grey-white shirt covered his chest; mismatched pants covered his legs. His feet and hands were bare, quick and nimble. There was something kenderish about the child, who couldn't have been more than six years old; Tavish saw Rannon's hands go instandly to his pouch hanging about his neck.

"Who are you?" Niall asked, his eyes wide.

"Oh, didn't I say? Probably not. You see, Asheyl knows my name, so it seemed rather stupid to keep telling her, so I stopped intoducing myself. But my name's Tanhin. What's yours?"

"Are you a kender?" Janek asked suspiciously.

"Me? No, but Asheyl said something about Mamma saying that I was half-kender . . . or something like that. You see," Tanhin's grey eyes grey sad, "I don't remember my Mamma. Asheyl said that one day, Mamma took us down to these ruins and left us. Years ago, when I was about three. Asheyl was five, she remembers. She has a good memory."

"So . . . you're a half-kender?" Tavish asked, trying to make some sense out of thechild'swords.

"Ask Asheyl." the boy replied.

"Ok . . ." Rannon said slowly. "Where is this Asheyl?"

"Oh, right behind you. Hi, Ash." the little boy waved to someone behind Tavish, who turned to look behind him.

There stood a little girl with tangeled, dirty hair the color of midnight, slightly tilted, almond-shaped eyes, delicately boned and smooth-skinned, though that smooth skin was covered, as was the boy's, with a thin layer of dirt, dust, and ash. She was dressed in a shapeless dress made of rags, and, like Tanhin, was barefoot. Her grey irises darted from face to face.

"Are you . . . Asheyl?" Tavish asked uncertainly. The little girl had something eerie about her.

"What do you want with me?" the voice was clipped and horse, as if she hadn't used it in a while. "Who are you?"

"I am Tavish Klenmore, and I am a cleric of Mishakal." Tavish replied, smiling.

"I never heard of her." the girl did not return the smile, but stared at Tavish with suspicion in her eyes.

"Have you lived here all your life?" Tavish asked, kneeling on the cracked stone, speaking gently.

"No." her lips barely moved as she spoke the word.

"Ah. Where did you live before?"

"With Mamma. Why?" her eyes fixed on his.

"I just want to know."

"You won't take us!"

Tavish rocked back on his heels, momentarily stunned at the force of those words - _you won't take us_! He recovered, and spoke calmly, "Why not?"

"Mamma said evil people would take us if they found us. Mamma said they'd hurt us." the girl snapped fiercely.

"I am not evil." Tavish spread his hands.

"They seem nice to me." Tanhin put in helpfully.

"Where do you live?" Tavish asked kindly, his eyes never leaving her face, pale beneath the smudges and ash.

"Here. With my brother. And Marigny."

"Marigny?"

"My doll. The one you have in your pouch." Asheyl pointed. "Give her back!"

Surprised, Tavish drew the limp doll from his pouch and held it out, then blinked as Asheyl darted forward and snatched it from his hand, clutching it to her chest.

"Where did you get the doll?" Tavish asked kindly, ignoring the mutters of the men.

"Mind your own business!" Asheyl snarled as much as her hoarse yet undeniably melodic voice would allow. She cradled the doll, wrung it between her fingers.

"I apologize." Tavish stood and bowed. "Could you show me where you live? I want only to help you." he added, seeing her delicate scowl.

"I don't need help." Asheyl clutched the doll, her fingers digging into the fabric. "I'm fine."

"Who taught you to speak?" Tavish asked, changing the subject.

"My Mamma." Asheyl spoke quickly, as if to get the words out.

"And she left you, didn't she?" Tavish looked sympethedically at the girl's ragged clothing and hair. "Left you here?"

"Why do you care?"

"I care." Tavish held outout his hand. "Would you please show me where you live?"

Asheyl refused his hand, turned her body away. "You can see just fine."

"Where do you sleep?"

Asheyl walked off, her gait stiff and rigid. Shrugging, Tanhin hopped off his branch and followed her. The men fell in line behind the two children.

"Tell me, Asheyl." spoke Tavish as he walked behind the girl. "Are you human?"

"No."

"Are you a half-elf?" he pressed.

"My father was an elf." her tone was as rigid as her walk.

"Ah. I see. How do you know that?"

"My Mamma told me."

"Is your brother half-elf?"

"No."

"Is he half-kender?"

"Yes. Mamma was weird that way." her steps quickened, as if to distance herself from this probing human as fast as possible.

They arrived at what might have been a house but was half-collapsed and draped with moss. A huge tree, twisted but alive, covered half the entrance. Asheyl slipped past it and ducked inside, Tanhin and Tavish on her heels.

Inside was one room, with a chimney, a pot, some blankets, a backpack, some pieces of random fabric, some candles, flint, steel, a needle, thread, and a carved rose. There was no furniture. Tavish had to duck to get in.

"You stay outside." he whispered to the men, who obeyed grumpily.

Now, crouching down in the 'house', Tavish thought he might know the children's story. Apparently, their Mamma had abandoned them, two half-breeds, to live in this unsuitable ruin. Looking at Asheyl's hands, clutching the doll, and at Tanhin's dirty face, then at the hovel, Tavish could not recall feeling sorrier for anyone.

"This is where you live?"

"Yes." Asheyl snapped.

Tavish looked around. "There is more to life than this." he whispered.

"Prove it." Asheyl hissed back, her teeth clenched.

Tavish looked at her, seated admist the rubble and cluttered, holding Marigny in those thin arms. "What did you have for dinner last night?" he asked softly.

"Food." she replied, avoiding his gaze.

Tavish made uphis mind then and there. "There is a monastery of Majere near here. They would be overjoyed to take you in, Asheyl. And Tanhin -near the monastery is a tavern known as the Elfsong Tavern. The owner, Alyth Kerril, would be overjoyed to have you."

Asheyl was expressionless. Tanhin looked thrilled, then downcast. "But when would I see Asheyl?"

"You'd see her." Tavish smiled. "And maybe we could track down your, uh, Mamma."

At these words, Asheyl turned her face to his. He could see skeptical curiosity in those elven eyes. "The monastery is flourishing," he told her gently. "Now that the War of the Lance is over, there are children there, children that could be your friends. What do you say?"

"No. I want to stay here."

"Oh, come on, Ash, it'll be fun!" Tanhin grinned happily. "And here is getting boring, anyway."

"You never said that before." she whispered to him, her expression fathomless. Tanhin shifted in his seat.

"Sorry, Ash." he whispered to the floor.

"Well," Tavish said, his mind by now more than made up. "Get your stuff, and let's go!"

"Now?" Asheyl asked, her expression cold.

"Er, yes. Of course, we'll drop you off at the Elfsong, then get you settled at the monastery." Tavish said kindly. "Come on!"

Ten minutes later, carrying bundles of odds and ends, the three emerged from the ruins. The three men started ahead, with fresh tales to tell to their wives and children waiting for them, while Tavish started for the opposite direction, Tanhin bouncing at his heels.

Asheyl, however, stopped. Holding the bundle, with Marigny tight in her arms, she looked out at the Ruins. Here her mother had dropped off her brother and herself, waved, and vanished into the trees. Here she had lived, gathering water from the stream, food from the forest and the provisions left by her mother, sewing clothes for her brother and herself from the old blankets. Here she had sweated in summer, played in autumn, stayed warm inside the house in winter, taken long walks in summer. Marigny, the only reminder of her beforelife, the doll her mother had given her, the doll that still smelled like her mother - a mixture of cheap perfume and sweat - was all that she had taken, along with the flint, the steel, the candles, and, lastly, the delicate, wooden rose her father had given her mother. Long ago.

Tears crept into her eyes.

And now she was leaving. Leaving. Gone. She'd never swing from the tree, never hide in the stone, never see her reflection in the old, pitted, broken glass. And . . . from deep inside her guarded heart, the hope, the emotion sprang; what if her mother came looking for her and Tanhin? She would find traces that they were there: the cracked stone where Tanhin had banged his knee, the threads and scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the stoned, the bent branches where they had climbed. But no children. Would she give up? Would she stop looking, if she had ever begun, for her children?

She blinked the tears from her eyes, turned, and wiped the emotion from her face. Sobbing inside, cold outside, she walked behind the two males, her arms tight around her bundle, tight around Marigny.

Her last memory of the Ruins was a piece of ragged cloth, caught on the stone, flapping idly in the rare wind as the branches of the tree swayed.

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what did you think? please review!


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